Useless
by Elegant-Chaos
Summary: I know he can hear every scream, every cry, every plea. But when he stands there at the top of my cold and wet well, dog in his arms as I whimper and sob and lie, all he does is turn his head away and monotonously repeat his dehumanizing command... SotL


**A/N: WARNING: Rated M for language, disturbing imagery(?) and could be a traumatic trigger. (Just being precautionary.)  
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** **Told from the Senator's daughter, Catherine Martin's, point of view and takes place while she is in Buffalo Bill's 'care' in the well (_mostly _during the 'lotion' scene). Apologies for the shortness of the story and general choppiness of the sentences. I know it turns a lot of the readers off, but it seemed to fit really well for this situation in my mind.****

****Since this is un-beta'd, I ask you to please excuse any minor mistakes. If you find any that I've overlooked, feel free to send me a POLITE PRIVATE MESSAGE telling me what and where they are. It would be greatly appreciated, and I'll correct the errors as soon as possible.****

_****Disclaimer : I do not own Silence of the Lambs or any of the characters mentioned; they belong to Thomas Harris.****_

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><p>I am cold, and wet, and terrified.<p>

I can hear his awful, tasteless music grating in my ears, I can hear his _stupid_ _fucking dog_ barking, screeching endlessly. I can smell the mustiness of this well, my own body's odor, and a horrible, cloying vanilla that attacks my nose. I can feel the rawness of my own throat, feel the scratch scratch scratch of my fingers against wet dirt and stone. Can I climb? No—too slippery just yet. Because of the hose. _Don't give me the hose again, I'll do as you say, please._

Useless—I feel useless. I want my family. Oh, God, I want my mommy, I want my mommy, _I want my mommy._

I know he can hear me. I know he can hear every scream, every cry, every plea. I know he understands when I tell him my mother is important, that he could have money—as much as he wanted if he'd just. Let. Me._ Go. _

But when he stands there at the top of my cold and wet well, dog in his arms as I whimper and sob and lie, all he does is turn his head away and monotonously repeat his dehumanizing command. _It rubs the lotion on its' skin or else it gets the hose again._

I pick up the lotion he's dropped into my prison with trembling hands and I sob okay, okay, okay. I turn away from his gaze, trying to give myself some sense of privacy but I can feel him watching me. I'm so scared, so terrified. Why did he want me? Why did he choose me? Why did I decide to help an injured man in the middle of the night? _Stupid, STUPID, __**STUPID.**_

I shake as I massage the lotion onto my skin, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, rubbing my legs together up and down hoping for the warmth of friction, struck with the disgusting scent of vanilla. I force myself not to vomit as I whimper, and cry, and obey. It feels cold on my skin and gives me chills and I hate it. I want out out _out._

Finished, cold, slick from water not-yet dried and lotion that feels oily on my skin, I cry and plead again as that lighted basket comes down by rope. I clutch the lotion close to me in arms that won't uncurl. I look at his terrible face and search for anything: pity, remorse, compassion. But he is so detached, hideously so. I cannot reach him with my tears—my bribes—and my hope in this dark, damp hell is quickly dying. I cannot think through my terror and he orders me.

I want to sink into the floor and die on my own before he has the chance to kill me. I want to go home. I miss my room and my nosy neighbors and my family. I miss the way my mother would call endlessly to check up on me and I miss being so annoyed by it. I miss my friends and the places we went. He orders again and my memories shut down at the sound of his voice. The only thoughts I am left with are that I want to go home, I want out, I want him to _let me go, __**please.**_

He screams at me, curses—_PUT THE FUCKING LOTION IN THE BASKET—_and I do, a quick toss as if the lotion could cause me physical pain. The dog barks and barks and _barks_ and I could kill it, _want_ to kill his _Precious_.

My eyes follow the light up as I hug myself and the scrapes are so clear in pattern and color and meaning—why had I not noticed them before? The tracks shine in the light from the wetness of the walls and gives the illusion that they are fresh. My scream echoes off the circular wall and deafens my own ears to his mocking wail, his dog's delighted yips.

I scream and scream, and curl in on myself. My hope is gone and it is so, so cold. I sink, and scrabble and claw at the ground, the walls—useless _useless __**useless. I want OUT.**_

I see the nails in my mind even as he walks away to leave me alone with the light off, and they grab at the wall, holding and sliding, ripped from the bed. The torn, bloody, desperate, failures that they are scratch at the darkness behind my eyelids, and I know that I can't get out.

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><p><strong>AN: ****It's 7:30 in the morning-I should be asleep. Instead, I write creepy things. I always found this scene to be really powerful in the film. It shows not only how desperate and scared Catherine is, but it shows the fragility of Buffalo Bill's sanity (BRAVO, Ted Levine). The nails broken in the walls really showed me how little hope Catherine had. (I always wondered how she hadn't noticed it before seeing as she'd obviously applied lotion in the same routine before.)**

**This isn't really my usual (or what you readers see of my 'usual') style of fanfiction but I loved writing it and I hope you guys enjoy it just as much.**

_**Feedback is encouraged and greatly appreciated!**_


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